


I'm So, So Sorry, but This Contains Vampires

by Fictionista654



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Dark Merlin (Merlin), Multi, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-01-25 20:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18582100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionista654/pseuds/Fictionista654
Summary: Arthur's a vampire-hunter. Merlin's a vampire.





	1. Hello Again

Merlin slid his lips along her neck, and she said, “Bite me,” and he laughed and said, “I’m tempted,” and she burst into dust. Then Merlin was looking a man holding a stake, and there wasn’t anything else to do but jump off the fire escape. He landed in a crouch and stood up, dusting off his hands. “Arthur Pendragon!” he called up. “I believe you owe me an apology for killing my date.”

Arthur Pendragon scoffed. “Your date,” he said, “has turned seven men and women, and murdered scores more.” 

“Isn’t she perfect?” said Merlin. “Now I’m going to have to find something new to play with while I wait for her to rematerialize.” Arthur Pendragon set his jaw and glared.

“You nauseate me,” Arthur said through his teeth. Merlin smiled the smile he’d been smiling for almost two-thousand years, the smile that looked so innocent and cheerful, it could break your heart. Even Arthur, hardened vampire-hunter, seemed disconcerted.

“Would you mind terribly coming down?” said Merlin. “I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

“With pleasure,” Arthur spat out, and clattered down the metal steps, the stake poised to strike. Merlin snapped a finger, and Gilli materialized from the shadows, pouring from a bottle of 0-neg into a crystal goblet.

“Thank you,” said Merlin. “Anything for you, Arthur Pendragon?”

Arthur’s face twisted with repulsion. “Disgusting.”

The first sip was deliciously salty. Merlin licked blood off his lips. “Once upon a time, I might have agreed with you.” 

“Why don’t you tell me more about that?” said Arthur, clearly stalling for backup.

“Another time, perhaps.” Merlin stepped into the shadows along the alley wall, and stepped out of the shadows into a corner of his library. Freya, sitting at one of the long oak reading tables, looked at him questioningly. 

“You’re back early.”

“The young Pendragon,” Merlin explained. “He got Sophia.”

“Oh, no,” Freya said tonelessly. “Not Sophia. She’s so much fun.”

Merlin laughed, putting his cup down on the nearest table and handing his coat to Gilli. “Come here.”

Freya stood, and Merlin saw she was wearing the her purple gown. 

“Going somewhere special?” he said, gathering her into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I thought I might go dancing. I’m terribly thirsty,” she said with a wicked smile. Her fangs skimmed Merlin’s neck, and he bent his head to the side to allow better access. His blood wouldn’t sate her—she’d need human blood for that—but it would take the edge off. Merlin closed his eyes and focused on the prick of pain.

“You’re so sweet to me,” Freya finally murmured, brushing her lips against his so he tasted his own blood. He breathed in the strawberry scent of her hair, and then she was gone. Once again, Merlin was alone.

***

“I’m sorry, Father.” Arthur bowed his head, conscious of stares from both sides. “I failed you.”

Uther Pendragon tightened his grip on the throne’s arm. “You mean to say he got away again?” His voice echoed through the Great Hall. 

“High Lord Pendragon,” Morgana said from her seat at Uther’s left. “If the rumors are true, the Emrys has been staked only once in all his two-thousand years. You can’t expect Arthur to complete this task in a week. If I could help him—”

“I will not hear of it,” said Uther. “You’re wounded.”

“Wounded? It was a scrape, nothing more.” Only Morgana, Arthur thought, would call being stabbed in the gut a scrape.

“Gaius?” said Uther. “Have you learned anything we can use?”

Gaius, looking older than ever, stepped forward. “The Emrys is said to travel with companions, my Lord. A woman and a man.”

“I think I met the man tonight,” Arthur interrupted. “He’s a kind of butler, I think.”

“That’s what the texts say,” said Gaius. “The woman, Freya, is thought to be his lover.”

“Do you think she knows he was on a date with Sophia Shae?” said Arthur. 

“You’re lucky it was her you staked and not Freya. The last time someone staked Freya, the Emrys reacted…badly. It was called the Bloody Century.”

“Jesus,” Gwaine said under his breath. 

“Do we know why he came here?” said Uther. “Is there something he wants in Camelot?”

Gaius spread his hands helplessly. “That, my Lord, I do not know.”

Uther sighed. “Council adjourned.”


	2. I Promise I'll Kill You Kindly

If Arthur were the type of person who felt fear, the Emrys would terrify him. But being raised by the most fearsome vampire-hunter on this side of the pond meant you had to lose fear, fast. A bit of nerves, that’s fine. That keeps you on your toes. But fear? Fear slows you down. Fear makes you hide.

Pendragons never hid.

Arthur, leaning against his desk, scraped the knife along the edge of his stake. “I don’t know what you want from me, Morgana.”

Morgana, looking a bit like a ghost with her long black hair and white nightgown, smiled. “Let me onto the taskforce.”

“Morgana—”

“If I hadn’t been injured, I would have been the head of this op. You know it’s true.”

It was true. Morgana was the better hunter. She always seemed to know what was going to happen before it did, and she hadn’t known fear since her father died. 

“Your internal organs are literally knitting themselves together,” Arthur said irritably. “Another internal bleed…”

Morgana rose from her perch at the end of his bed, arms outstretched. “The Emrys is the most famous vampire _in the world_. Would you be so cruel as to deny me this?” 

Arthur touched his hand to the panel on the wall, and the door slid open, revealing the Sublevel 3 corridor. “I need to sleep.”

“Arthur.” She grabbed his shoulder. “You don’t even know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Then enlighten me,” Arthur snapped. She looked away. “Thought so. You don’t know any more than I do.”

She clenched her jaw. “Believe me, Arthur, when I say the Emrys is like nothing we’ve ever faced before. No vampire, no ghoul, no werewolf, no shade. Nothing.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Morgana shook her head.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t. Goodnight, Morgana.”

She stood at the threshold and stared at him like she was seeing something horrific, something no one else could see. And then she left, and the door slid shut behind her.

***

Freya privately considered herself the best-dressed woman at the bar. Still. She eyed the leather miniskirts and sparkly blouses the women sported and wondered if she should change into something more inconspicuous. A 1500 year-old evening gown, though gorgeous and perfectly preserved, stuck out like a broken fang. 

“My lady,” a low voice said in her ear, and she shivered. His blood smelled hot and thick and tasty.

“My lord,” she said, turning on her barstool and looking up into a pair of warm brown eyes. The man had a scar over one eye and looked a little stunned, which made sense. Freya had that effect on people.

“I like your dress,” he said, taking the stool to her left. “Where did you get it?”

“Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.” 

He ordered her a cherry daiquiri. Freya plucked the blood-clot of a cherry out of the brilliant ruby liquid and sucked it off the stem. Merlin had long ago given on human food, but Freya didn’t mind it. Maybe in another 500 years, she would.

“Hey,” said the guy. “I don’t know your name.”

“And I don’t know yours.”

“Gwaine,” he said, flashing a set of blunt white teeth. “Gwaine Orkney.” 

“Freya,” said Freya. “No last name.”

“Well, Freya, no-last name, shall we take this outside?” He rested a hand on her thigh. 

They burst through the alley door, their mouths all over each other, and as soon as the heavy thing clunked shut behind them, Freya kneed Gwaine between the legs and held him up against wall by his neck.

“You think I don’t recognize a hunter when I see one?” she said, amused at the way Gwaine glared down at her. She reached her hand into his coat and pulled out his stake. “I know you’re not a vampire, but I don’t think anyone does well after being stabbed in the heart.” She pressed the sharp end against his chest. “So talk.” 

Gwaine kicked her in the stomach, and she dropped him. He made a move for his weapon, and she swept a leg behind his knees, forcing him to the ground. “You really shouldn’t dress like that,” Gwaine managed. “Could tell you were a vamp the moment I walked through the door.” He rolled to his feet, and they warily circled each other.

“And you should have that pixie bite look at,” said Freya, nodding at his scar. “Dead giveaway.”

Gwaine surprised her by laughing. “My friend was right,” he explained. “And I told her she was being foolish.”

“Men always think they’re right,” said Freya.

“It’s a terrible habbit,” Gwaine agreed. “Could I have that back by any chance?”

“This?” Freya flipped the stake around in her hand. 

“You don’t understand the paperwork I’ll have to do if I go back without it.” Gwaine shuddered.

“Sure,” said Freya. “You can have it back. Fetch!” She threw it long, and they both heard it land at the other end of the alley. Gwaine eyed her. She eyed Gwaine. Gwaine backed up a few steps. She stayed where she was. Gwaine backed up a few more steps. Freya waved to him. Gwaine turned to run, and Freya leaped the distance between them, tackling him to the ground. Gwaine struggled, but she held down his limbs with her own, and she was stronger.

“Just kill me,” Gwain said at last. “Don’t turn me.”

Freya could see his blood pusing in his neck. Her mouth watered. “How about I do neither?” she said, and bit down.

***

Merlin could always sense when Freya fed. He felt her pleasure roll steadily through him and pushed aside his tome. It had been an unimaginably long time ago when he found her in that cage, bruised and shaking. He could tell immediately that she was no ordinary vampire; a special power trickled in her nearly-stagnant veins. Not quite the same as his own, but special nonetheless.

And he’d been so lonely, before her. If he were being honest, he was still lonely. “Such is the life of a vampire, is it not, Gilli?”

“Yes, Emrys,” Gilli agreed automatically. “More sanguis?”

Merlin looked down at his nearly-empty goblet. “No,” he said finally. “Not right now. Actually, I have a visit to pay.”

***

Olaf almost bared his fangs when he opened the door. It was amusing to see the different emotions run over his face: fear, anger, fear again. “Emrys,” he said stiffly. “How long has it been?”

“75 years,” Merlin said, sweeping past Olaf into the large foyer of his villa. White roses grew up the walls, and the central staircase’s bannister was twined with more. The smell was terribly cloying, and Merlin plucked his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit.

“You’re fancy tonight,” Olaf grunted. Merlin considered punishing him for that one, but no. There would be time later.

“I believe in style.” Merlin pointedly ran his eyes over Olaf’s wife-beater/leather pants ensemble. 

“Why are you here,” asked Olaf. 

Merlin tilted his head. “Can’t I visit an old friend?” 

“We’re not friends,” Olaf snarled. “You’re the reason I’m like this.” 

“You begged me to turn you.”

“Because you turned my daughter!” 

“Oh, the lovely lady Vivian,” Merlin said. “She was a pretty one. Where is she now?”

Olaf glowered. “Staked seven years ago by Arthur Pendragon.”

“Seven years,” said Merlin. “Chin up. It’s only 93 years until you get her back. Though, if I were you, I don’t think I’d be too keen.”

“You—” Olaf swiped, and Merlin easily danced out of the way. “Get out of my house!”

“Gladly. Pay me tribute, and I’ll be on my way.”

“You can’t do this,” said Olaf. “I’m a king.”

“You _were_ a king,” Merlin corrected. “Now you’re my subject. My tribute, please. Or will I have to do what I did last time?”

“No!” Olaf said. “No.” He hurried up the stairs. Merlin hummed a tune while he waited.


	3. The Cat Dies at the End

Arthur found Gwen in the gym, where she was running on a treadmill. He must have looked grim, because Gwen immediately turned off the treadmill and went to him. 

“What’s up?” she said, panting slightly. Her face shimmered with sweat. 

“Gwaine hasn’t returned from patrol.” 

Gwen furrowed her brow. “It’s only eleven. He stays out late all the time.”

Arthur shook his head. “Not tonight. He promised he’d come back on time because he’s stepping in for Pel.”

“Stepping in for…oh.” Gwen looked cross. “Whose idea was it to give him a downtown beat?”

“Gwaine promised it’d be fine,” said Arthur, feeling very cross himself. “Pel’s out with concussion, and we needed a last-minute replacement.”

“And now Gwaine’s probably using company money to drink himself blind,” Gwen said. 

“I’ve half a mind to wait for my father to notice he’s missing. That would teach him a lesson.” But they both knew Arthur wouldn’t do that to Gwaine. Gwen squeezed Arthur’s hand.

“I’ll get my gear, okay?” 

“I knew I could count on you,” said Arthur. “You’re a true friend, Gwen.”

Gwen laughed. “Yeah, yeah. That’s enough, Pendragon.” 

***

They checked five bars before they found someone who had seen him (though many of the establishments had announced, after seeing Gwaine’s picutre, that they knew him but he’d been banned for ages). 

“Here a couple hours ago, I think,” said the sixth bar’s bartender. “Remember his scar.”

“Do you know where he went?” said Gwen.

“Nah. He bought a drink for the weird girl, though,” the bartender added. “Might have left with her.”

“The weird girl?”

“Came in for the first time tonight. Had an old ballgown on or something.”

Shit. “Okay,” said Arthur, sharing a look with Gwen. “Thanks.” 

“You check the bathroom, I check outside?” Gwen murmured. Arthur nodded. As it turned out, there was nothing in the bathroom but clumps of wet paper towel plastered to the floor and a clogged toilet. It was disgusting enough that he washed his hands even though he hadn’t touched anything. There was a beep, and a message from Gwen flashed across the screen of his SmartWatch.

“How is he?” said Arthur, shouldering open the alleyway door. Gwen looked up from where she was kneeling by Gwaine.

“Alive,” she said, and then pressed her lips together. Arthur crouched and rolled Gwaine’s head to the side. Two tiny holes beneath his jaw. “He’s lost a lot of blood. I called for backup.” She was holding Gwaine’s hand with both of her own. 

“There might not be anything they can do,” Arthur said gently. “You have to prepare for the possibility that he’s been compromised.” 

“There’s no way to tell until we get to the lab,” said Gwen. “Let him have these last few minutes of being human.” 

***

The piano was as much a joy to play now as the day it was invented. Merlin closed his eyes and let the music guide his fingers along the keys. Recently, he’d felt his faculties of joy withering; when he played music, he forgot all that. There was no room for morose rumination when your fingers were climbing crescendos. Suddenly, he sensed a presence at his side. It was Freya, her cheeks flushed with a recent feed.

“I nearly killed a hunter tonight,” she said. Merlin slid to the side and patted the empty spot on the piano bench. She sat with a rustle of brocade.

“Are you okay?” he said, cupping her head with his hand. She tapped idly at the piano. 

“He didn’t hurt me.”

“But something’s wrong.”

“I should have killed him.” Freya’s voice was quiet but clear. “I should have cut out his heart.”

“So you’ll kill the next one,” Merlin said fervently. “Don’t bite yourself up over this. I have something that might cheer you up.” He rose from the piano and extended his hand for Freya to join him. 

Their quarters in Camelot had been a merchant’s mansion at the turn of the 20th century and, though the kitchen and bathrooms had been redone many times, the house still carried the mark of its original owner. Dragons carved into wood panelling, old chairs with legs that read _AP_. Some of the books in the library even dated back to the merchant’s collection. It was one of these books that Merlin retrieved now. It creaked when he turned to the title page.

“ _Rex Quondum, Rex Futurus_ ,” breathed Freya. She touched the page’s golden border. “My gods, Merlin. This might actually help.”

“I know,” said Merlin and, infected with her awe, grinned. She grinned back, and her fangs glinted in the lamplight.

***

Unable to escape his hunger any longer, Merlin slipped from the house just before dawn. The pavement was wet from last night’s deluge and pleasantly cool beneath Merlin’s bare feet as he moved soundlessly along the residential streets. It seemed that he could walk forever. But then a cat darted in front of him, and he snatched it so quickly that anyone with normal vision would have thought he hadn’t moved at all. It squirmed in his grasp, but Merlin didn’t see a collar, which made it fair game. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in its ear.

The first bite was so good that his knees gave out, and he had to sat cross-legged against a picket fence while he ate. He wished he had time to savor it, but people would be leaving their houses soon, so he tossed the remains down a sewer grate and licked the remaining blood off his fingers. He was still hungry, but at least the ache was gone. 

***

Gwaine hadn’t been turned. It was the best news Arthur had heard since the Emrys arrived. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be angry, though.

“It didn’t even occur to you that she might be the Emrys’s companion?” Arthur demanded. Gwaine, propped back on pillows and still looking unusually pale, shrugged.

“She’s not the only vamp who likes vintagewear,” said Gwaine. “I thought it would be a normal kill.”

“But you had Freya’s physical description!” said Gwen. “White, brown hair, brown eyes, physically appears to be in her early to mid twenties.”

“And now we have more stuff to add!” Gwaine said, giving her a thumbs-up. “For example, being tackled by her is comporable to being run over by a Mack Truck.”

Gwen sighed.“Anything else?” 

Gwaine looked uneasy. “There was something, but I might have imagined it. I must’ve.” Through the infirmary window, Arthur could see his father approaching.

“Spit it out, Gwaine.”

“I think…at the end…I think she had wings.”


	4. My Computer Can Beat Your Book

Freya had not always been such a dangerous creature. For nineteen years, she’d lived in a little village by a lake. She’d grown strong from autumn harvests and tall from goat’s milk and clever from bargaining at market. The most mischief she ever made was a few tumbles in the hay with a pretty boy or girl. 

But that was a long time ago, when Camelot was young. The lake was gone, and all the trees cut down, and fifty years ago, a cute little cul-de-sac of identical houses was pasted over the remains.

And now she was back in Camelot for the first time in centuries. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Temporal dislocation could be worse than spatial dislocation. At least when she wasn’t here, she could pretend her home still existed. When she was back, she knew she had lost everything.

No. Not everything. She had Merlin, and she had herself. If only her memory would run out of storage and start erasing the earliest memories. She’d heard of this happening to other immortal creatures—ghouls, for example, could remember nothing beyond the past hundred years—but her vampiric memory preserved every detail. She could recall the freckles on her mother’s face as easily as she could recall the look on that hunter’s face when she pinned him yesterday.

At least she was too busy to ruminate for long. “Right,” she said, looking up from the book at Merlin’s pacing form. He’d been lost in thought, going from one end of the library to the other with no real purpose, but now he turned to look at her.

“What do you think?”

“It’s risky,” she said, index finger stroking the aged page. “But you’re right. It’ll work. Did Olaf—”

“Yes,” Merlin said with a wry smile, and threw himself into one of the armchairs, draping a leg over one of the arms. One of his fangs jutted over his lower lip; he was hungry. No matter how Freya pleaded, Merlin refused to eat with her. Not after Versaille and the Marie Antoinette debacle. 

“All we need is the sword, then,” said Freya. “Do you have any leads?”

Merlin smiled again, a different smile. A cold smile. The smile that usually meant this was the last thing you would ever see. “Tintagel is an underground operation in more ways than one.”

Freya’s eyes widened. “You found them?”

“Using Olaf’s gift,” said Merlin. He took his goblet from the side-table and gulped the contents. When he put the goblet back down, red dripped from his lips to his chin. “At least some of their operation is located in secret subterranean tunnels. And below even those tunnels are the vaults.”

“And they have it?”

“If the Pendragons have lost that sword,” said Merlin, “it will be a grave day for us indeed.”

***

“My God,” said Arthur, staring over Elena’s shoulder. “The Emrys did that?”

“Terrible, isn’t it?” She clicked her mouse and the photograph was replaced with a new, equally horrifying one. 

“Those poor nuns,” Arthur said, and swallowed back his bile. “Shit.”

“That is what’s on the walls, yes.” Elena tapped a nail at the wall of the depicted orphanage, where a cryptic rune was scrawled in excrement.

“And this was, when, 1970?”

“’71.” Elena sighed and shoved a thatch of sweaty hair back from her face. The computer labs were always too hot. 

“I still don’t understand why he took the bowl,” said Arthur, frustrated. 

“The holy water? I don’t know.” Elena swivelled to face Arthur, and he noticed how red her eyes were. She must have been at this for hours.

“Good work,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder.

“It was a cursed day that The Emrys decided to come to Camelot,” she said bitterly. “He’s pure evil, Arthur. The worst vampire to ever walk the earth. And his partner’s no better. Might even be worse. She has more confirmed kills than any other vampire, including Emrys. More than most magicreatures, honestly.”

“Being immortal probably gives her an edge over your average werewolf,” Arthur said dryly. “Speaking of which, I hear Mithian led the taskforce yesterday that took down the Avalone Ave. den.”

Elena flushed. “Yeah,” she said. “Mithian’s great, isn’t she?”

“She is. And you are, too. Get some rest.”

“With pleasure,” she said, switching off her monitor. “Ugh. Having the Emrys here gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“I know what you mean,” Arthur said grimly, and pressed the panel to open the door.

***

Everything was stronger at night. Merlin stood at the top of the clocktower and raised his arms to the heavens. It had been five hundred years since he last stood in this spot, and he meant to enjoy it. There was still so much work to do, but tonight was for him, and him alone. He tilted his face to the stars, but when he spoke, he was seeing a man with golden hair and blue, blue eyes.

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I’m coming for you. This will all be over soon.”


	5. Chapter 5

Gilli was getting right tired of being a servant. For 200 years, it was nothing but commands from Emrys and the cat. She wasn’t the only one who could shapeshift! In fact, Gilli could—and he was quite proud of this—turn into a toad. But did that get him any glory? Of course not. He glowered at Emrys over his ring, and the bloody bastard just looked amused.

“Spit it out, Gilli,” he said, leaning back in his chair and putting down his book. “Something’s the matter.”

Gilli swallowed thickly, his eyes darting around the library. This had to be a trick. The last time Emrys asked how Gilli was doing, that was the last thing Gilli heard for a centry. When he rematerialized, it was to the cat’s gloating face saying, “He’s back, Merlin!” And he bloody well _was_ back, doomed to another eternity of serving the king of the vamps. It was hell, it was.

“Fine, your Emrys,” Gilli said. “Can’t complain.”

Emrys laughed darkly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The truth, please.” Gilli’s fangs quivered in fear. Emrys looked happy, but he looked happy so much of the time that it meant nothing. He might be about to despine Gilli like a fish. 

“I was just wondering, sire, if, perhaps, there might be something else I could do to be useful,” he managed. “Perhaps, with the Tintagel opperation.”

Emrys raised his brows. “You? You think you have something to offer that Freya and I don’t?”

“I’m powerful,” Gilli said sullenly. “I used to be called the Terror of Transylvania.”

“Until I beat you,” said Emrys pleasantly.

“Right,” said Gilli. “Until you beat me.” It was just like Emrys, after all, unable to let anyone else get above him. Too many kills, and you’d be facing Emrys’s fangs. Either bow to him, or die, and die as many times as it took to finally bow.

“I suppose,” said Emrys, “since you asked so nicely, there is something I could use some help with.”

Gilli licked his lips. “Yes?”

“The Lady Nim is throwing a ball on the occasion of my return to Camelot. She has something I need, and it won’t be easy getting it from her.”

“You want me to get it?” said Gilli, not letting his hopes rise. For all he knew, this could be another cruel trick.

“Listen closely,” said Emrys, and Gilli did.

***

Morgana stood in the Tintagel’s crypts, her tablet clutched to her chest. It was there, just like in her dream—the sword. And just like in her dream, it was stuck into a hunk of stone. She tugged on it halfheartedly, knowing that if her dream were right, there was only one person who could get it to budge.

Her phone buzzed, and she jumped, laughing at herself. “Morgana Pendragon speaking,” she said, tucking the phone between her ear and chin and staring down at the sword. “What?” Her eyes widened, and she nearly dropped her tablet. “No, yes, I’ll be right there.”

Morgana found Arthur in the garage. “I knew you’d need my help,” she crowed, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“This is hardly action, Morgana. We’re just going to interview a couple of nuns.”

“It’s field work,” she said brightly, buckling herself into the passenger seat and checking her reflection in the pull-down mirror. “Think I look Catholic enough?”

“What does that even mean?” said Arthur, pulling into Camelot traffic. 

“I don’t know…sexually repressed, I suppose.”

“Then no,” Arthur said dryly. 

“Wonderful, I didn’t want to look Catholic anyway.” Morgana flipped up the mirror and gave her brother her biggest smile. “So, give me the rundown. What’re we trying to find out?”

***

As it turned out, the nuns of St. Vivienne of Avalon were not a friendly bunch. Not toward Arthur annyway. Annoyingly, predictably they loved Morgana. Arthur trailed behind as Morgana chattered with one of the sisters about benefits of rose petals on the liver, which sounded like a load of bollocks, but if it got them intel…

“That’s a beautiful statue,” said Morgana, nodding at a angel curled under its wings. “What does the plaque say?”

“It’s a memorium,” said Sister Joan gravely. “For the nuns slaughtered under—” She crossed herself. “—The Emrys. I remember that day well.” 

“But you would have been a little girl then?” said Morgana. Sister Joan nodded.

“I was only ten, but I already lived here. I was a foundling.”

Morgana glanced back at Arthur, smirking ever-so-slightly. People always _talked_ to her, sharing their worst memories as easily as they’d share a recipe. It was the reason Arthur had brought her along, after all, but it still irked him. 

“A foundling?” said Morgana. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Sister Joan waved this away, sitting down at a stone bench and patting the spot next to her for Morgana to join her. Arthur hovered awkwardly, fiddling with the camera that they’d brought as a prop to lend a realistic aspect to their “we’re reporters for the Times” story.

“I can’t remember anything before my life here, anyway,” she said. “There was nothing tragic about being raised here. Nothing until…well.” 

“Yes,” Morgana said softly, putting her hand over Joan’s. “The attack.”

Joan shuddered. “We were in Vespers,” she said. “It was an ordinary evening, really. I was tired, nearly falling asleep. And then the door burst open and _they_ came in.”

“They?” said Morgana, though, of course, she and Arthur already knew, having read every available article on the massacre.

“The vampires,” Sister Joan said, her face pained. “The man and the woman. I’ve never seen such evil before. The way they attacked, like they were starving. I lay underneath my pew and covered my ears, and I could still hear the sisters’ screams.”

“But they didn’t hurt you?” said Morgana. Sister Joan shook her head.

“I still don’t know why. There were other children who perished. When the man dragged me out from under the pew, I thought I was finished. His eyes were so red, and his fangs dripped blood, and I thought I was done for, I knew that I was so close to being dead, and his mouth opened, and he lunged for me, he lunged—” Sister Joan broke off, panting with remembered fear. Morgana’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, and Arthur could tell that the story was getting to her. Hell, it was getting to him, too. 

“What happened then?” said Morgana.

“I still don’t understand,” Sister Joan whispered. “His face was right against mine, and he was snarling, a terrible snarl like an animal, and then the woman put her hand on his shoulder, and she was screaming, and his eyes faded to blue and his fangs sucked back in and he stared at me and stared at me, and then he tossed me aside.”

“And then?” said Morgana.

Sister Joan shook her head. “They left. They left me alone with all the dead.”


	6. Chapter 6

Freya clutched the gravestone before her and closed her eyes in pleasure. Merlin, a hand braced on her shoulder, groaned.

“Mm,” breathed Freya. “Keep going.” 

“Look up,” Merlin whispered in her ear, so she did, lifting her gaze to the sky.

“The stars,” she breathed. There were so many of them, swirling and gleaming—the last time she’d seen something like this was decades ago. 

“Citywide blackout,” said Merlin. “Just for you.”

“You didn’t,” she said, but she was laughing, and Merlin was so fucking good at fucking, and he’d literally given her the stars. She came first and her knees nearly buckled, but Merlin gripped her ribs and held her up until he finished.

“How long has it been since we did that?” said Freya, when they were lying on their backs on the graveyard grass, watching the stars.

“Too long,” said Merlin, smiling that beautiful, beautiful smile. One of his fangs poked over his full lower lip, and she turned on her side, reaching out a hand to trace the tooth with a finger. She had something she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure how to say it.

“Merlin…”

He pressed a kiss to her lips. “Yes?”

“When this is all over, are you going to leave me?”

“Freya!” said Merlin, sounding truly shocked. “Of course not!”

“But you’ll have him back,” said Freya. 

“I might kill him,” said Merlin. “Gut him in front of his father and hang him by his own intestines.” 

“No,” said Freya. “I know you won’t. You wouldn’t be able to.” Merlin licked his lips.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But that’s no guarantee that I’ll want him in my bed, or that he’ll want me in his.”

He was evading the question. He’d always done that, as long as Freya had known him. She’d heard of the Emrys as a child, the worst of the worst bloodsuckers. But whenever she’d say, “You’re the Emrys, I _know_ you’re the Emrys,” he’d smile blankly and say, “Never met him.”

And then he sucked her blood and turned her into a monster just like him.

“Let’s say that you and Arthur fall back into each other’s arms. Will you leave me?”

“You’re my truest friend. I’d never leave you.”

“You know what I mean.”

Merlin ran his hands over his face. “Yes,” he said at last. “If I had Arthur back, I would stop sleeping with you.”

Freya turned this over in her mind. She’d thought the knowledge would make her feel worse, but it was nice to know the truth. “You aren’t the best I’ve ever had, anyway.”

“No?” Merlin sounded amused, and trailed the tips of her fingers down her inner arm. She shivered.

“No. Her name was Mary. Mary Stuart.” 

Merlin sat up and shoved her arm. “So that’s what you were doing in France!” Freya started to respond, but a creaking noise at the bottom of the hill grabbed her attention. She smelled blood. Merlin smelled it too. They stared at each other, frozen.

“Don’t,” said Freya, but it was too late. She could see the bloodlust in his eyes. Merlin leaped to his feet and jumped over the graves, pouncing on the man coming up the hill. A bouquet of flowers dropped to the ground as the man screamed. And then it cut off with a gurgle. Merlin slammed the man to the ground, his fangs still affixed to his neck. She could hear Merlin’s gulps, hear the whisper of the man’s fingers against the grass in his last seconds of life.

And she didn’t mean to. She really didn’t. But the blood quickened her stilled heart, and he was already dying, and it wasn’t like another vampire could hurt. She sighed, got to her feet, and trudged over to the prey. 

***

Across the city, Arthur turned over in his sleep. He was dreaming of a battle.


End file.
